Welcome to the Land of
EEEE. Home of
EEEEVA EEEENORMOUS and her 46EEEE Twins.
And there she is, Meredith who is not at all short or fat, or even chunky—unless you
’
re talking about her breasts, still topless—straddling some kind of missile, smiling more brightly than she or anyone else has ever smiled in this building.
Henry clicks to the What
’
s New VIP page, but there
’
s nothing new, really. At least, not since end of day yesterday. Just some additional, never-before-seen shots from a months-old naughty accountant layout. No new message for her loyal subscribers. No breaking career news or video updates. Maybe if she
’
d stop reading the damned financial pages, Henry thinks. He shuts the machine down and stands up.
Back outside, Meredith doesn
’
t acknowledge him as he walks
by. She continues talking to Giffler
’
s admin, a gay temp named Brad who could probably run the whole division if he were more interested in making a living and less interested in full-time clubbing.
If you only k
n
ew what I know about the young woman to whom you
’
re talking, Bradley.
Indeed, if anyone knew.
But your secret is safe with me,
EEEEva
.
“
I
’
m off to the Oven,
”
he says over his shoulder.
Meredith briefly considers Henry before turning back toward clueless Brad.
~ * ~
Nanoabsorbers™
The Oven is the 101-degree-Fahrenheit observation room in which focus group participants are paid in the area of $75 to spend approximately two hours applying product and having their armpit sweat measured. An insensitive nickname, especially at a New York-headquartered company with more than 11,000 Jewish employees worldwide, but it is accurate.
On Henry
’
s side of the glass it
’
s a comfortable seventy-two degrees. He grabs a Snapple from the mini-fridge on the back wall and picks up the spec
sheet on the participants. Women, aged twenty-four to thirty-four, median income of $30,000. As they file in, he tries to match the specifics of their lives to their nametags. Hobbies, jobs, marital status, children. Stick, roll-on, or aerosol. Hygienic rituals. Brand affinities.
He
’
s disappointed that none seem particularly attractive, although it
’
s hard to tell, since most of them are wearing sweatshirts and who looks good in a sweatshirt in 101-degree fluorescent light? That will soon change, when the heat begins to register and they have to apply the product, which in this case features an innovation called Nanoabsorbers™, which isn
’
t really an innovation as much as a new name for an old technology, which isn
’
t really a technology as much as it is a bunch of loosely regulated, decades-old, sweat-blocking chemicals or ingredients, one of which is active.
Typically they
’
ll apply product, overheat the humans, and
micromeasure
how much sweat is released, but today the test is
more about the word
Nanoabsorbers™
and the perceived increase in dryness that hearing the actual word and watching three short computer-generated Nanoabsorbers™ demo films (variations on swirling, swarming molecules sopping up waterborne evil from free-floating, disembodied armpits) bestows upon the subjects. Someone in name generation came up with the word, and everyone creamed all over it. Moniker testing was through the roof, and now it
’
s just a matter of finding the right ingredients, the right product, to invent around the word.
When he first started in Armpits, Henry found sessions like this degrading for parties on both sides of the glass. He felt dirty when the participants, especially the women in the twenty-four-to-thirty-four demo, would glance his way through the two-way mirror. That first glance, or glare, really, before they became desensitized to the environment and caught up in the throes of ego and opinion, always made him feel ashamed. They looked angry, as if they knew they were about to be violated and dehumanized, all for $75 and as many soft drinks and salty, trans-fat-based snacks as they could consume. The stifling heat didn
’
t help their moods, either. He used to look away when they made that initial stroll by the mirror. He used to think about what their lives must be like outside of the Oven, beyond the spec sheet. What music did they listen to, how many brothers and sisters did they have, had they ever had an affair, where were they on 9/11? But now he just tries to predict which of them will have the most active
eccrine
and
apocrine
glands. Which will sweat more profusely than all the others.
Sometimes they bet on it. Five bucks a head. Draw numbers to determine who goes first. Sometimes they do the over/under version, but usually it
’
s sheer volume that makes for the most interesting competition. Winner takes all in the sweat pool. But this morning he
’
s alone in the dark room as the subjects do the stroll and sulk. And even as they reluctantly start removing their sweatshirts (with one more obligatory glare for the perv on the other side), he
’
s not interested in any of it.
He just wants to get it over with.
The door in back of the room swings open. As yellow hall light seeps in, Henry averts his face from the group on the other side,
because anything less than total darkness on his side will expose him as the solitary underarm voyeur he is. He sees Giffler
’
s face for an instant before his boss shuts the door, depriving the room of light.
At first he
’
s just a voice.
“
How do they look? Anyone
bangable
?
”
Henry laughs, then regrets it, then feels disgusted with himself because he knows that while Giffler
’
s words are offensive, particularly when spoken in the hallowed workplace, he thought the same thing moments earlier.
Giffler reaches for the volume.
“
Mind if I turn this shit down?
”
“
Sure. If I miss something, I can check the tape.
”
“
They tape everything now, eh? Or record, because I doubt anyone tapes much of any fucking thing anymore. What they ought to do if they want to learn anything is tape-slash-record what goes on
this
side of the mirror. I heard Dworik did a moderator against the glass last week while a baby-wipes group was in progress on the other side.
”
“
Wonderful. Quite the role model.
”
On the other side women are removing their outer garments, revealing the sleeveless T-shirts and tank tops they were requested to wear.
“
Look at the cans on her. Jesus.
”
Henry turns and looks with lust. Doesn
’
t look. Then looks without lust. He goes through the whole outrage/guilt/self-loathing ritual again.
“
I wonder if there
’
s a link between
tata
size and volume of underarm sweat. Or type of odor. For instance, do chicks with fake tits
smell
different? That
’
s a piece of research I
’
d like to oversee.
”
“
I
’
m sure Dworik would green-light it.
”
“
So why am I here, you ask.
”
“
All the time,
”
Henry replies, watching the women apply the generic stick product with the Nanoabsorber™ logo.
“
Tell me that
’
s not erotic? Even the ugly ones. Were you here back in the day when we did the hairy group? Four weeks
’
armpit bush minimum to get in. Even that you can
’
t help but find—
”
“
So you
’
ve told me.
”
Henry thinks if the DVDs from the hairy armpit sessions just happen to come up missing from the archives, he
’
ll know where to look first.
“
Anyway, I
’
m here to tell you that you owe me a great old big one. A huge fucking one.
”
“
Okay.
”
“
Because . . .
”
“
Because . . .
”
“
Because I saved your ay-
yass
, Tuhoe. As we have this conversation that never happened, your whole level, most of this division, is being outsourced to fucking Bangalore, India.
”
“
They can
’
t do that.
”
“
Or Hungary. I forget. Some are going to Budapest and Prague and some to India. Anyway, I know. It
’
s an outrage. Makes one sick. Blah-blah-blah.
”
“
India? What do they know about what we do here?
”
“
They have armpits too. Besides, most of R & D is going to be humanely put down. Should have done it long ago. They
’
re going to stick with basically repackaging and repositioning what we
’
ve got. I mean, you
’
re only allowed to stop thirty percent of the sweat by law, and we can do that in our sleep, so what other mountain is there to climb in the world of sweaty pits?
”
“
They can
’
t outsource my job. I deal with clients and customers every day. I innovate. Some kid in India can
’
t do that over the phone.
”
“
Oh yes he can. And for one tenth the price.
”
“
That
’
s bullshit. I
’
m a knowledge worker. A right-brainer. Even in this economy, Dan Pink and Thomas Friedman say knowledge workers are untouchable.
”
“
We
’
ve already outsourced the entire Eye Care Division.
”
“
That
’
s not true. I just spoke to Warren last night. We had lunch yesterday. He
’
s all excited about—
”
Giffler puts his hand to his mouth.
“
Whoopsy
. I forgot that pit-sniffers and
eyeballers
occasionally cross-pollinate. Forgot he was your friend. So I misspoke. Let
’
s forget I said that. Actually, I never did say it, you lying bastard. Eye Care is rock-solid. Warren is golden. Safe as ever.
”
“
He
’
s in his office. I passed it this morning. He
’
s not outsourced.
”
“
Oh yes he—or the hypothetical employee whom we
’
ll call
Warren
—is. Off the record, someone in Bangalore or Mumbai or
perhaps Prague is doing his job right now for pennies on the dollar. We
’
re just being redundant for a little while to make sure it doesn
’
t bite us in the ass with some kind of cultural glitch, or typhoon, or Pakistani warhead. So don
’
t tell him.
”
“
He
’
s one of my closest friends in the company. And you should know that unlike everyone else in this place, Warren loves his job.
”